paula

says when the moon came out

of her it was like a whitney houston song.

achy and full of high tones. she traces my fingers

over the scar, asks do i want to be beautiful too.

paula sucks on fireballs all day, says she knew

the 90s would be like this. i watch as she twists

the corner of her t-shirt around her finger and threads it

through a hot pink clip, her stomach glowing like a street lamp.

paula calls me late at night, says that this is a dream.

i wake to find her in the floorboards,

her laugh opening the curtains. she smiles

and says, the day she was born she watched god

die in a fire. we spend the afternoon nailing flowers

to our mothers. paula leads me to water,

says we are the baptism. together

we watch as summer drains the sky.

i show her how night lifts the windows,

but she says, it’s just her father’s hands.

after too much, paula tells me that sadness is like a girl

in a striped shirt. i put this in my book of important things.